Khajiit With No Name
by Neldur
Summary: I lost my family, and gained a new one. I lost that one, too. Now I have been thrust into a new society, and must make do with it.
1. Note

I have gone by many names and no names. Few know that I even have a name, and even fewer still would believe such a thing. But it matters not what I call myself; you, my reader, shall find it out in time. I leave this journal as evidence that I exist, have existed, and continue to exist. Perhaps one day the men, women, and creatures that I serviced will recognize my worth and actions. It is my deepest wish that someone understand my journey, and not just the gods above. To have the knowledge that one is not forgotten nor ignored is the thing that will lay my spirit to rest.

Why do we all value such with high worth? I cannot answer that. It is that intangible inner desire to be worthy of honor, respect, and even glory. The human needs are mysteries to us all. We cannot live without it, yet there is no reason for it. Why, then, do I put forth such an effort, when I know that it matters not in the end? That it is the mere desire of a mortal?

Because I can.

I am a man. I am both pure of heart and sinful in nature. I serve myself; I serve my friends. But how can a nameless man have friends? Through both deceit and honesty. I have lied about my name, and I have told the truth of it. Many men are glad that only the gods know their inner secrets, their horrid, sordid thoughts and pasts. I am not. I defy this world and its workings. I defy the very society that has been put in place. I have kept my existence a secret, but no longer. I cast out this journal in the hopes that somewhere, a man will learn from my life. The ones I have helped—whom I am with no longer—may potentially learn of my truth.

From this day on, the lies and incessant hiding are gone. I go out into the world with a lighter heart.

If it means the death of me, then so be it.


	2. First Entry

I have decided to start a journal of my life from this point. I shall dedicate this entry to my beginnings, as I have found that such practice is common among civilized people. It makes sense to this one.

I lived in the mountains as a kitten. At only a few months old, my fur was as white as the snow around our shack. My memory of my blood parents is nonexistent, but I have since returned to that shack and read their writings. They cared much for me.

The area we lived in was dangerous. One day, a small clowder of large, ivory-colored sabre cats attacked my family and feasted on their flesh. Being small as I was, they took me in as one of their own. I assume they thought I was the same as them. It matters not; they treated me as such. Kittens are all the same to them, Khajiit or sabre.

The home of my blood parents was in a mountainous area very close to Winterhold, just to the south. My first true home was to the east of there, on the shores of the endless sea. The large cats cared for me, fed me, kept me warm, and taught me to hunt. I grew at a much slower pace than they did, yet they still treated me the same. My litter-mates became adults while I was still a child; I believed there was an irrevocable problem with me, and was grateful for their care. They brought plentiful food back to the shallow cave where we lived. When I had reached the age of five, I was finally deemed large enough to hunt.

We began with rabbits. I was very clumsy, and my tiny frame and light weight made it difficult to attack, though hiding was simple once I got the hang of it. After a few days of hunting the increasingly plentiful creatures—the cold winter was easing off into what I now know as the month of First Seed—I was able to easily capture them. I tore into them in the same manner as my adopted family, ravaging the fur and eating every scrap that I could off the bones. Rabbits were eaten when hunted; larger beasts were dragged to the shelter.

In the snowy, rocky areas, hunting was easy. I learned how to successfully creep up on not only rabbits but also elk and goats. Both the piles of snow and large stone formations helped, along with the existence of shrubbery, however scarce. My claws and teeth, small as they were, required the aid of a brother or sister of mine to take down the larger beasts, especially when the wolves were out. I grew to dread their loud howls. The small, dark ones, in their packs, provided a healthy challenge when alone. It was the snowy wolves that provided a real threat. It took me until my litter-mates' litters were grown to be able to face one alone; that is to say that only at my tenth winter was I able to traverse the wilderness without help.

On one of these excursions, the winter after I had killed my first snow wolf, I came very close to the city of Winterhold. I had seen and smelled it from afar, but up close, it was exotic and exciting. Spices! Human sweat! Chickens! It was wondrous. I did not go too close, for fear of how these creatures would treat me.

While at this place, I saw a strange sight. There was one who walked on hind legs as did the furless beasts, yet had plenty of fur. Later, I discovered that this was a male Khajiit. At the time I could not even tell his sex. He had on him strange objects that hid his fur, the same things that I assumed the furless ones wore to stay warm. Why he would wear such was beyond me. Of course, my own exposure to the elements had ensured that my own pelt grew thickly and lushly, with very little shedding during the warmer seasons.

This enigma I was seeing was, after some thought, very similar to me. Certainly he acted differently, and he was unusually colored for the snowy regions (but what other regions were there? I had not known of anywhere else, lest he came from beneath the sea, yet he was not fat and blubbery, nor scaly). But his frame was the same as mine, and his muscles—how thin and soft he was!—were located the same as mine on his body. This was the subject of fascination for me for many months, and I pondered the topic while watching the town multiple times.

On my third visit, still hiding from afar, I found one of the large, red-feathered birds clucking about and jerking its body this way and that as it waddled its thick torso about, presumably in search of food to further gorge itself on. Being just out of sight of the town, I quickly approached it, snapped its neck, and carried it in my mouth down to the small cave, sharing its succulent flesh with the one kitten there. There had been a twin, but that one had died quickly of illness. It was a sad occurrence, the death of a clowder-mate, but not very uncommon. I cannot even recall the death of my adopted mother. I think she was killed by one of the furless ones in blue; too many died that way. The flash of silvery steel, accompanied by that heartless blue, was fuel for many a nightmare I had. Their pelts were then used to cover the feet of these men and keep them warm. It is a disgusting practice. I was at least comforted by the fact that the potential kin of mine in the town did not kill my family nor wear their furs. When I did see him wear fur that was not his own, it was from an elk, from the faint scents I picked up and the colors of it. I do not think he hunted that elk.

On my twelfth winter, the first of my litter-mates died at the hands of a furless man. I did not recognize him, but he smelled even more exotic than the regular townsfolk. I had learned at this point to find the differences between the males and females of them: the males must be larger than the females, as with my adopted kin, and they tended to have deeper voices. He not only smelled vastly different, but he had a certain energy about him. The surprise came when he used the shocking power of storms to kill my litter-mate. Her fur was singed and smelled as a tree once did after light danced in the sky and the earth beneath my paws shook with tremors.

It angered me that these people would kill so indiscriminately. They had hurt my family, my strong, surviving kin, with mere words and metals. I did not want to be their next prey. I would be the predator. My next meal would be the flesh of the furless.

I waited until that night. I scaled the rocky formation underneath the large building, the one separate from the town. There was more of that energy that the man had used to kill my litter-mate, and anger surged through me. I opened the door by using the ring on it, as I had seen the men of the town do. I did not stand as they did; I would not degrade myself with such. I walked as my own type did: on all fours.

The inside of this place was much warmer than my home. It was uncomfortable in its novelty, yet so very comfortable in how it felt. Lethargy quickly attempted to make its way through my body, combining with the tiredness that the night brings to evoke a multitude of yawns from my maw. The complexity of the scents confused me, and I could not locate the one from the man earlier. I started to follow some other human scents, and after moving a couple more of these peculiar wooden walls with cold rings on them, I found a room that smelled fairly musty. There were many colorful blocks stacked in evenly made formations of wood planks. There were thin rolls of what smelled similar to wood sitting on tables, next to small, purple crystals. I did not like it.

I smelled the man I was seeking right before I passed out.

That was my childhood. The next eight years consisted of being fed cooked meat, wearing the damned unnecessary clothing, and cleaning various parts of the College of Winterhold. The man who killed my litter-mates was named Onmund, and he is the one who dictated my actions for the next eight years.

My scruffy fur was cut. I learned the language of the Nords, and learned how to write it. I was trained in the ways of magic, but did not adapt well to that, and so was taught how to used those cursed swords. Bows and arrows fascinated me. Still I preferred my own claws and teeth, but after years of practice, I found that these new weapons were more effective.

I learned calm magics, peaceful spells that would light up a room or start a campfire. I was trained in the art of alchemy, learning what seemingly innocent plants and objects could do in a harmful or helpful manner. Medicines I planned to use, and certain plants I decided would be useful as an addition to a meal. Poisons I would avoid.

I was disallowed from seeing my clowder again. I met the furless men who had frequently killed some of them—Nords, Skyrim nationalists, calling themselves Stormcloaks, under their "king," the Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. I did not care for this man at all, or his cruel army. I did not like the sound of the Imperials that they were unfriendly with either, a strong conflict of beliefs and attempts to control the others.

This, I learned, was politics. I did not like politics.

I began to hunt again at sixteen winters, when I was tentatively allowed out. I was constantly watched. I started with rabbits, as my mother had taught me, making my way quickly up to wolves and elk, all with a bow. After, I attacked wolves with knives and swords. I did not try to use magic; to use magic to kill is deplorable. It is a cruel and abnormal way to die, by fire that burns your skin off your flesh, or frost that seeps unerringly into your bones. I shall never forget the stench that haunted my dreams after my litter-mate was burnt by summoned lightning.

At twenty years of age by today, Tirdas, the second day of Sun's Dawn, 4E 201, I leave the city of Winterhold. It has been acknowledged that my place is not among these mages and Stormcloaks, so near to my dear home. I have moved on from that first phase of my life, that existence of a feral cat. I am now a civilized man. I take my leave of this town that has become nearly a prison to me, while being an invaluable experience. I have been given a small amount of coin and provisions, with a set of arrows, a bow, and a dagger to take with me. I plan to make a living by hunting. Perhaps I shall hunt those who would kill the glorious sabres of the mountains. After all, I consider them my kin.

The den where my clowder lived is empty. There is a dead kitten there, dead for days by now. Tracks leading away from it are older.

I was given a name by Onmund: Ra'Sheeja. He claims that I have risen in the world, from a beast to a man, and has thus given me the title Ra. My first known human word was "she." He placed them into a nice, packaged name for me. I did not like it very much, but it would do for now.

I suppose my past will never leave me, or at least so long as I have my name.

I miss her.


End file.
